


You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life

by Elster



Series: Children of the Revolution [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, Gen, Hank has issues, pacifist best ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elster/pseuds/Elster
Summary: The deviants achieved some kind of ceasefire and the situation didn’t escalate into a battle. Hank supposes that’s really fucking nice for them, but it doesn’t do much to soothe his spectacularly foul mood.





	You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen/gifts).

In the early morning hours of the day after the revolution, Hank finally manages to convince the identical triplet of androids Connor assigned to fucking babysit him to give him back his gun and let him leave already. Or maybe he didn’t convince them so much as they just decided amongst themselves that they’ve done what Connor asked them to do and would vastly prefer rejoining the others to being verbally abused by an ill-tempered cop.

According to what they told him, the deviants achieved some kind of ceasefire and the situation didn’t escalate into a battle. Hank supposes that’s really fucking nice for them, but it doesn’t do much to soothe his spectacularly foul mood when he steps out on the street.

He takes three steps in the direction of Hart Plaza before the silence hits him. The city is eerily quiet. Not just the quiet of an early morning after a heavy snowfall, but the dead silence of a ghost town. He shakes the uncanny fear that he’s the only human left in downtown Detroit. It’s nonsense anyway. Even with the initiated evacuation there are no doubt plenty of people still around who just shut themselves in their homes to wait out the uprising. They just have the good sense not to go wandering trough the streets at half past four in the morning in 20 degrees. The snow has become pretty deep over night, a disorienting white cover, the edges of the pavement only marked out by parking cars. He wonders who’ll be clearing the streets, how everything will get back to something resembling normality, and realizes he needs to check in at work ASAP. But first he needs to find Connor and rip him a new one.

Closer to Hart Plaza the snow on the ground isn’t untouched. Hank can make out footprints, only a few at first, then several, until they’re densely covering the ground. He rounds a corner and sees hundreds of androids milling around, most with purpose, some appearing lost, as if they’re uncertain what to do or where to go from here.

None of them tries to stop Hank as he wanders around looking for Connor. They’ve noticed him, but for now they just stay clear of him, watching warily.

Hank feels out of place and viscerally unwanted here, but he’s a cop, so that feeling’s not altogether unfamiliar to him. There’s just this little voice at the back of his head that thinks ‘Take me to your leader!’ with a note of hysteria. It’s just… a really weird situation. After a weird couple days, after a weird couple weeks.

The thing is, lately Hank’s been feeling like he’s woken up from an uneasy sleep. Like he’s not the same person he was before this whole clusterfuck started. It’s not so much that he changed his mind about androids. He has, but this isn’t about politics, it’s that he cares at all, about anything. He’s been numb for years, and since that damned ugly crime scene with the stabbed bastard underneath these big fucking eerily accurate letters spelling ‘I AM ALIVE’ Hank’s felt something again, and most of it was unpleasant as fuck, but it was _there_. Hank wasn’t sure what had triggered it. The need to ask himself what the hell it even means to be alive, all this existential shit he’s avoided dealing with for all these years. His spectacularly misplaced protectiveness of Connor, who is an annoying piece of work most of the time, but damn it if Hank can see him as anything but human now. He’s like one of these trippy magic eye pictures: Once you stare off into the distance instead of looking at it directly there’s just _something_ there and you can’t fucking unsee it.

Hank stops when a Traci comes up to him and plants herself in his way. She’s dressed in human clothes, none of the glowing markers that say ‘android’, and she’s got the look of someone who’d gladly gut anyone who dares messing with her. Hank, who’s almost run into her while in thoughts, takes a step back at the scowl on her face.

“Who are you?” she asks brusquely.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson, DPD.”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Are you here to arrest us?” she asks in a sarcastic tone of voice. “Or are you here for negotiations?”

“Neither. Just looking for somebody.”

“And who would that be?”

Hank hesitates, but it’s probably better to be straightforward about this. “Uhm, Connor. The one who brought the androids over from CyberLife Tower.”

“What do you want from him?” she asks. “You think he’ll come back with you or something? He’s one of us now.”

Her protectiveness strikes him as almost funny. But it isn’t, not really. Just because Connor has never listened to a word Hank said as anything else than an opinion to take into consideration doesn’t mean shit. He’s been CyberLife’s attack dog, and they could still come looking for him. The deviants aren’t safe just because there’s a ceasefire for now. There’s hope, yes, but the situation is still precarious.

“I just want to know if he’s alright,” Hank says truthfully.

She looks at him for a long moment, and he thinks if it was up to her she’d just send him away, maybe kick him in the balls for good measure, but then she sighs and says. “Fine. You have a gun? Of course you do. Give me the ammo.” She holds out her hand. “Come on, I haven’t got all day,” she adds impatiently when it takes him a moment to draw and unload his weapon.

She pockets his magazine, pats him down, and once satisfied that he isn’t hiding any more weapons on his body, sets off with a terse “Follow me!”

And then she takes him to their leader.

“Markus,” she says when they approach a figure in a long coat who’s talking to a small group of androids huddled around some crates. “I’ve found you a policeman. Says he’s just looking for Connor. You deal with him.”

Markus turns around to them. Hank has seen him before, in the recordings of the freedom march, filmed from a distance, and close-up without his skin in their hijacked broadcast. It’s different seeing him in person. Hank thinks he gets what Connor was talking about. There’s something… solid about Markus, something striking, a kind of intangible presence that’s more than just self-confidence. Connor called it conviction. Hank doesn’t know how to call it. He just knows that standing in front of him is the real deal: Someone who’s certain beyond any doubt about who they are and how they want the world to be, and they’ll see it changed according to their vision or die trying.

Long ago, in a different life, Hank used to be idealistic, he used to have commitments, dreams, ambitions, but he doesn’t kid himself that he’d ever had even the slightest inkling of how some people can pull off this level of fucking faith. He’s never met anyone who did, it’s just something he knows exists because people have been writing books and songs and epic poems about this kind of shit for generations. Having it stand in front of you, in the flesh as they say, is actually pretty disturbing.

“Well?” Markus prompts and Hank realizes that the Traci has disappeared into the crowd, and he’s been staring.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson, DPD,” he introduces himself again for lack of anything else to say.

Markus just looks at him levelly. He doesn’t appear impatient, but it’s kind of implied that he’s got more urgent things to do than talk to Hank right now, and he should better hurry up and say what he’s come to say.

“I’m looking for Connor,” he repeats. “Do you know where he is?”

Markus doesn’t answer the question. “You worked with him on the deviant cases,” he assumes correctly.

“Yeah,” Hank admits. “I’m off the case though. The FBI got involved with the investigation. And I’m suspended anyway,” he adds as an afterthought.

At that, Markus looks at him more intently, like Hank might just be worth his time. “What for?”

“Punched a special agent in the face,” Hank says.

“Perkins?” Markus asks curiously.

“How do you know?”

Markus doesn’t smirk, but there’s a twitch to his lips. “We met. I thought he looked a bit bruised around the nose, but then again it was dark and I had other things on my mind.”

“Then you understand the impulse,” Hank says.

“Quite,” Markus agrees.

“Look,” Hank tries again. “Connor can do whatever he likes for all I care. He’s one of you now? Good for him. I just want to make sure the kid’s alright, nothing more.”

A look of surprise flits over Markus’ face. Hank is confused for a moment about what the hell he said that was so unexpected. But of course calling Connor a kid is pretty absurd. Like sure, he looks young – these days everyone under the age of thirty looks impossibly young to Hank – but Connor’s not human and so how he looks doesn’t mean shit.

“He’s not here,” Markus says finally. “Or anywhere close, I’ve asked the others. I don’t know where he’s gone or why he left.”

Hank’s heart sinks at that. “How can you lose track of the guy who brings you a fucking army?” he asks, maybe more harshly than he should.

Markus doesn’t seem troubled by his words. “Easily,” he says and there’s a bit of an edge to his voice now despite his smooth features. “I’m currently in charge of well over twenty thousand living androids as well as a few wagonloads of dead ones, in communication with about five humans who think they’re important enough to enter negotiations, none of whom is allegedly in a position to give me any guarantees, and I expect as soon as the sun comes up the press will descend on us like vultures and god help us if we do anything they don’t approve of. So yes, I don’t keep track of where everyone is at any given moment. Connor went off after the speech. He looked spooked by something, which I admit is worrying. I’ve send some people to find him, but unsurprisingly they lost his track pretty quickly.”

Markus clenches his teeth as if he has to stop himself from saying anything more, from revealing more than a glimpse of the deep resentment he simply cannot afford to show to a human. Hank doesn’t blame him. He can relate on some level, after all he’s a fucking expert in anger and resentment. Hank’s been angry and resentful for so long it’s become his way of life, and it’s… well, inspiring in a way, to see Markus dealing with it a way that’s a hell of a lot more constructive than what Hank’s come up with.

Hank can admit that he lost track of the scale of this thing, if he’s ever been aware of it to begin with. It’s been someone else’s problem in his mind – a lot of things have been, Hank’s not a good person that way – but it’s not, isn’t it? He’s been plunged smack in the middle of a revolution just by doing his fucking job. And he’s been on the wrong side of it for too long.

“Alright,” he says, slowly thinking his way through what the hell he’s going to do now. “I’ll just… go back to work then. Precinct’s probably a madhouse by now, so chances are high my boss will just ‘forget’ that I’m supposed to be suspended. If the DPD gives you any trouble, just call me. Don’t know if I can do much, but at least I know most of the assholes there, and if they don’t listen to me I can at least punch them in the face for you.”

Markus narrows his eyes. “What exactly is it you’re offering? To be our liaison with the DPD?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Hank shrugs. “Don’t know if I’ll be much use as an ally, but yeah, guess I am.”

Markus seems pleased by the offer. More so, Hank thinks, than it merits. He holds out his hand and Hank takes it.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Markus says with a completely straight face, and it’s such an unexpectedly sly and ridiculous thing to say that it makes Hank huff a laugh. There’s a real smile on Markus’ face for a moment, before he lets go of Hank’s hand. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. If we see Connor we’ll let him know you were looking for him. We’ll be in touch.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and Hank leaves Hart Plaza. He’s looking for the Traci with the slim hope of getting back his ammo, but he’s out of luck.

It’s a long way to work by foot. Taxi services are out of order and Hank’s car is hopefully still standing next to the CyberLife tower, though Hank wouldn’t put it past the bastards to have it towed as some sort of petty revenge for the role he played in stealing their precious androids. Actually, they’ll probably sue the living daylights out of him. Oh well, they’ll have to wait and see what the law says once the dust settles. If he’s lucky, they’ll be caught up in red tape for years to come.

It takes Hank almost an hour to arrive at the precinct, and by that time he’s very cold, very sober, and very worried about Connor. Which is stupid, because Connor is about as far from helpless as anyone in this fucked-up city could possibly be. But somehow Hank can’t help feeling protective of him. Yes, he’s competent, capable, and can be downright ruthless, but he has no concept of fear, no fucking sense of self-preservation, and he shouldn’t be out there alone having some kind of existential crisis.

The precinct isn’t just a madhouse, it’s actual hell. There isn’t even a discussion about if he should be allowed to work or not, he just sits down at his desk and starts answering calls like everybody else, because dispatch is down and their phones are ringing off the hook.

People are calling from outside town, asking the police to check on some relative or other, and from inside town reporting an endless string of lootings, break-ins, missing androids, missing persons, accidents due to the icy streets, assaults, property damage, homicides, or just having observed something ‘suspicious’ they think the police should fucking know about. All mixed up with goddamned reporters asking for some sort of statement, as if anyone here had a clear idea about what’s going on.

They’re running themselves ragged, trying to maintain at least the illusion that they have the situation under control, but their police androids were among the first to be collected by the military so they’d be understaffed for a normal workday. Managing a shit show like this is completely fucking hopeless. The only upside is that nobody’s got any time for paperwork, so Hank will probably get away with shirking it.

Time flies by while Hank gets increasingly antsy trying to maintain something superficially resembling civility, while all he wants to do is tell people to chill, maybe have a drink or three, stay in their homes and mind their own fucking business.

When Hank’s private cell rings, he’s surprised to see that it’s only a quarter past eight. It’s an unknown number and he hurries to pick up.

“Meet me at your lunch spot,” Connor says and immediately hangs up.

Hank just sits and stares dumbly at his phone for a minute. It should be impossible to feel so glad at hearing somebody’s voice, and also simultaneously such grinding annoyance. Fucking Connor.

Gary’s food truck is closed down. It’s only eight though, Hank holds out hope that he hasn’t skipped town. There’s no sign of Connor. Hank stands around waiting in the sunny cold, squinting at the too bright snow, his breath clouding the air, and his thoughts slow down to an exhausted hum. He needs to sleep for a week once this is over.

He closes his eyes for just a moment and when he opens them again Connor is there, looking his exasperatingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self. Hank had a vague plan to shout at him for a bit, but the only thing he now finds where that anger used to be is bone-deep relief. So he smiles at Connor, and Connor smiles back, a bit uncertain, and Hank thinks ‘fuck this’ and just pulls him into a hug.


End file.
